


Bevel

by firesign10



Category: Supernatural
Genre: College, Community: spnspiration, Gen, Knives
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-29
Updated: 2015-03-29
Packaged: 2018-03-20 05:42:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,940
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3638901
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/firesign10/pseuds/firesign10
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jo's looking forward to leaving for college, but not to leaving her knives behind.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bevel

**Author's Note:**

  * For [kribban](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kribban/gifts).



> Written for [kribban](http://kribban.livejournal.com/) in the April Fool [SPNspiration](http://spnspiration.livejournal.com)! Her prompt: "Jo Harvelle. Students are advised that knives are forbidden in the dormitory."

Jo Harvelle studied the suggested packing list for freshmen students attending Boise State University in the fall.

_Comforter and sheets, twin extra-long_

_Two sets towels (bath, hand, washcloth)_

_Laundry bag/hamper_

_Alarm clock_

_Laptop_

_Desk lamp_

And so on. She snorted and tossed the paper onto her bed.

Jo had been accepted at a few colleges, but she'd picked Boise out of all of them. While Idaho wasn't a big social draw, it was far enough from her mother and the Roadhouse for her to breathe, and that was what counted. She didn't think she'd like the hustle and bustle of a big city--she was raised to appreciate big open spaces and small rural towns, dusty roads and lots of room to see where the enemy would ride in from. Boise seemed like it covered all the bases; the real college experience set in an environment she'd be comfortable in.

And full of boys. Boys that might make her stop thinking about vibrant green eyes and sexy bowed legs; capable, elegant hands and quick smiles that cut her like a knife.

Oh yeah--knives. There was a distinct lack of cutlery on the packing list.

She pulled out the leather roll from under her bed and untied it. Her beauties lay glinting against the rich, dark brown leather, blades polished to a brilliant shine, edges sharpened to split hairs. Each knife had its own flexible plastic sheath, so the leather wouldn't trap any moisture against the blades. She eyed them approvingly. She could shoot like Annie Oakley, but it was her knives that made her feel secure.

Knives that would not be allowed on campus.

_No guns, explosives, knives, or other weaponry may be brought onto campus or into the dormitories at any time._

She sighed, fretting at her bottom lip. She hated the idea of leaving them at home until she figured out how to stash them, or got an off-campus apartment. Freshman, however, were required to live one year on-campus before being allowed off-campus housing. "An integral part of the university experience", the brochures said.

Fuck.

She re-rolled the thick leather wrap. _Just pack everything else and move,_ she thought to herself firmly, _then I'll figure out a solution._ At least salt, holy water, and consecrated iron could be concealed in broad sight.

***

After years of living at the Roadhouse and alongside Dr. Badass (or Bare-ass, as she thought of him), adapting to dorm life was no sweat. Jo was unfazed by the noise, the drinking, the pot smoking, and boys walking around in various states of undress. The girls annoyed her more--the giggling, the stupid mind-games, the disapproving looks they gave her. She liked to have her hair nice, polish her nails, flirt a little. She just couldn't be bothered with the rest of it. After facing real monsters, bitchy college girls paled in comparison. She ignored them and plunged into studying and hanging out with some guy friends. That, she could handle.

It was the little things that made her homesick. Ellen cheerfully greeting her every morning, even if they had bickered the night before. Ash's brilliant but incredibly loopy conversation that always made her laugh and shake her head. The beer cellar, a cool refuge in the sweaty heat of a Nebraska summer. The pools of light aross the dark tables in the evening. The murmur of conversation and laughter during a night at the Roadhouse. She never thought she'd miss that--it was all part of what she thought she was trying to get away from.

Like getting away from a tall man with broad shoulders smiling at her, his face crinkling up adorably at the corners of his eyes, challenging her to a game of darts and actually being a worthy opponent. His ready laugh, his lips pursing as he drank his bottle of beer or a tumbler of whiskey, making her think all kinds of dirty thoughts. A man she'd wanted--still wanted, if she could really admit it to herself--but could never have.

She could hear Sam's voice--the demon who'd possessed him, yeah, but using Sam's deep, silky voice--murmuring to her as he held her pinned on the bar. _Cause see, Dean, he likes you, sure, but not in the way you'd want. I mean, maybe as kind of a . . . a little sister, you know? But -- romance, that's just out of the question, he--he kind of thinks you're a schoolgirl, you know?_

Yeah, she didn't plan to go back for a long time, homesick or not.

Money was pretty tight; her mother sent what she could spare from the so-called profits from the Roadhouse, but even in Bumfuck, Idaho, there were expenses. Books, beers (they weren't free anymore), and winter clothes; Idaho was way colder and snowier than Nebraska had been. Jo found that her classes still left her a fair amount of free time, so she began to look for a job around the campus. There was a job board in the student center, a big bulletin board covered with gaily colored bits of paper for this job and that. One day after lunch, she stopped to give it a good looking over.

_Dog walker._

That only made her think of hellhounds. No. She shivered in the sunlight streaming in the big windows of the common. Hellhound gave her the fucking creeps.

_Baby-sitter._

That made her laugh outright. She'd either train the kid to shoot, or how to exorcise demons in Latin.

_Research assistant._

She'd done enough research in her life already, thankyouverymuch.

_Kitchen help, campus cafeteria._

Well, that was a possibility. She'd slung burgers, handled the deep fryer. Even tossed the odd salad, mostly for Sam. Kitchen help could work out just fine.

She made a note of it, and went on to her next class.

***

The cafeteria manager was Bob, a big, blond, bear of a man, genial beneath his bluster. Jo had handled a thousand others like him, and usually when they were drunk. He hired her on the spot.

She pulled shifts manning the grill interspersed with prep work. Working the grill was hot and sweaty, but Jo relished the fatigue that settled into her bones afterward. It was reminiscent of post-hunt fatigue, stopping the non-academic trains of thought that looped uselessly through her mind. Prep work was boring, though, and she grimaced at the endless vegetable rinsing and slicing and restocking that the salad bar required. What students ate all that salad? Not that many, if she went by the hordes that clustered at the grill. But whatever--it was her job, and Jo Harvelle never shirked from hard work.

She was working her way through half a dozen bundles of celery one day--who knew that celery even had a smell, much less such an unpleasant one--when she realized what she was holding in her hand. A knife. Nothing like her beauties at home; this was a battered wooden handle on a dull blade, stained with black splotches from oxidation. Yet it was a workhorse of a knife, heavy and authoritative, chopping its way through endless bushels of vegetables, and it fit well in her hand.

She ordered a whetstone from Amazon, bringing it into the kitchen after dinner prep one night. Working the blade against the stone re-awakened a rhythm in her hands, a soothing rhythm that eased a tension inside her she'd been unaware of. The blade seemed to respond to the attention, reclaiming some of its prior luster and dignity. Once it was sharp, she buffed it with fine grade steel wool, then oiled it. She found a spot for it by itself, so it wouldn't knick or be knicked anymore.

Now when she was on prep, the knife sang as she chopped and diced. It responded to every press from her fingers, every flick of her wrist. Bob noticed her productivity increasing and complimented her. She just smiled and thanked him.

Other knives caught her eye in kitchen. A long slicing knife, used to cut endless sandwich rolls, another for roast beef and turkey breasts. A couple of small paring knives, lying neglected in a drawer full of odd utensils. One by one she collected them, worked them on her whetstone, restored their edge and their finish. Their handles were oiled. She collected them from their various corners and drawers. Jo decided to make a wrap for them out of a couple of sturdy canvas aprons, taking them into a shoe repair shop she'd found to fix her boots. They sewed one apron to the other, cleverly constructing individual pockets inside for all the blades, and then a tie to roll it up with.

As the knives came to new life under her hand, Jo shifted her schedule to include more prep work and less grill time. In addition to working with the vegetables for the salad bar, she sliced meats, cheeses, and breads for the lunch rush; deboned chickens; and trimmed eye rounds for roast beef. Anything that needed to be done with her rejuvenated blades, she did. She took the neglected paring knives, restored them as well, and began to practice decorative work. She carved radishes, carrots, and cucumbers into simple curves and spirals, eventually expanding into rosettes and other more complex shapes. Bob noticed the deli trays decorated with vegetable trims; he complimented her on her growing skill and asked her to do fancy work for catered university parties, in addition to her usual duties.

As the spring semester wound down, it struck her that she didn't want to go back to the Roadhouse. Somewhere along the way, she'd become comfortable here. She emailed Ellen about staying, feeling trepidation with every key-stroke and then waiting anxiously for a reply. While she waited, she searched the listings and found a studio apartment near the campus. The selling point of the studio was the tiny kitchen in one corner.

After a week had passed, Jo faced up to knowing she would have to call her mother after all. She dreaded the confrontation; surely all this time with no email reply meant she was in deep shit. Sitting on the futon she'd found at a discount store, Jo picked up her cell phone to dial Ellen.

Before she could punch the contact button, a squeak of hydraulics drew her to the window. A UPS truck had pulled up outside her building. The driver got out with a box and walked up to the building's front door. Her buzzer rang, making her jump--surely it was a coincidence? Who would be sending a package to her? She shook herself and ran down the stairs.

The box was not unduly large, but it was heavy as Jo juggled it to sign for the package. Back upstairs again, she split the packing tape and opened it eagerly--the suspense made her feel like she was five years old again, and Daddy had brought her a present from one of his many long trips.

She gasped as she saw the dark leather wrap nestled in bubble wrap. Lifting it out in shaking hands, she blinked hard to keep the tears away. She laid it on the futon reverently, untying it and opening to see her knives. A paper fell out as she pulled each one free, watching them glint in the afternoon sun. Jo picked it up and read,

_Joanna Beth,_

_I understand. It's time for you to make your own road. Just know you can always come back anytime._

_I love you,_

_Mama_

The apartment didn't feel like a new place anymore.

It felt like home.


End file.
